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."Where's the White House?" he demanded hoarsely."About"—Shapiro approached the screen, pointed with a shaking finger—"there." The splash of gray across more gray was almost unrecognizable."Less than six hundred yards from ground zero, sir.There might be survivors—"Dr.James quietly pushed his chair back from the table, turned away from the screens, and stood up.A DISA staffer took over the chair even before he cleared the doorway.The corridor outside was cramped and overfull with aides and officers busily waiting to see the Man.All of them showed signs of agitation: anger and fear and outrage vying for priority.Patience, James told himself.The end times haven't begun—yet.WARBUCKS would be a much better president than BOY WONDER (the bumbling dry-drunk scion of a political dynasty had inherited his dad's presidential mantle but not his acumen); and in any case, a presidential martyrdom pardoned all political sins.Dr.James headed for the communications office.His mind, unlike almost everyone else's, was calm: He knew exactly what he had to do.Find out where the surviving Supreme Court Justices were, locate the senior surviving judge, and get him here as fast as possible to swear in the new president.Then we can clean house.Both at home and in the other world God had provided for America, as this one was filling up with heathens and atheists and wickedness.There will be a reckoning, he thought with quiet satisfaction.And righteousness will prevail.Steve Schroeder had barely been back at his desk for ten minutes when he received another visit.This time it was Riccardo, with two other men Steve didn't recognize but who exuded the unmistakable smell of cop."Mr.Schroeder," said the tall, thin one."Mr.Pirello here tells me you had a visitor this morning."Steve glanced at Riccardo.His boss's forehead was gleaming under the fluorescent tubes."Tell him, Steve.""Yes," Steve admitted."Do you have ID?"The short fireplug in the double-breasted suit leaned towards him: "You don't get to ask questions," he started, but the thin man raised a hand."Not yet.Mr.Schroeder, we're from the FBI.Agent Judt." He held an ID badge where Steve couldn't help seeing it."This is my colleague, Agent Fowler.It would make things much easier if we could keep this cordial, and we understand your first instinct is to treat this as a news investigation, but right now we're looking at an unprecedented crime and you're the first lead we've found.If you know anything, anything at all, then I'd be very grateful if you'd share it with us.""If there's another bomb out there and you don't help us, you could be charged with conspiracy," Agent Fowler added in a low warning rumble.Then he shut up.Steve took a deep breath.The explosions kept replaying behind his eyelids in slow motion.He breathed out slowly."I'm a bit.freaked," he admitted."This morning I had a visit from a man who identified himself as a DEA agent, name of Fleming.He spun me a crazy yarn and I figured he was basically your usual run-of-the-mill paranoid schizophrenic.I didn't check his ID at the time—tell the truth, I wanted him out of here.He said there'd be nukes, and he'd call back later.I've got a recording"—he gestured to his dictaphone—" but that's about it.All I can tell you is what he told me.And hope to hell he gets back in touch."Agent Fowler stared at him with an expression like a mastiff contemplating a marrowbone."You sent him away."Fear and anger began to mix in the back of Steve's mind."No, what I sent away was a fruitcake," he insisted."I write the information technology section.Put yourself in my shoes—some guy you don't know comes to visit and explains how a secret government agency to deal with time travelers from another universe has lost a bunch of atom bombs accidentally-on-purpose because they want the time travelers to plant them in our cities—what would you do? Ask him when he last took his prescription? Show him the door, by any chance?"Fowler still stared at him, but after a second Agent Judt nodded."Your point is taken," he said softly."Nevertheless.""You want to wait until he makes contact again, be my guest." Steve shuddered."He might be a fruitcake, or he might be the real thing; that's not my call.I assume you guys can tell the difference?""We get fruitcakes too," Judt assured him.Riccardo was being no help: He just stood there in front of the beige partition, eyes vacant, nodding along like a pod person."But we don't usually get them so close to an actual, uh, incident.""Act of war," Fowler snarled quietly."Or treason."Fleming didn't ask for anonymity, Steve reminded himself.Which left: handing a journalistic source over to the FBI.Normally a huge no-no, utterly immoral and unjustifiable, except.this wasn't business as usual, was it? "I'll help you," Steve said quietly."I want to see you catch whoever did it.But I don't think it's Fleming you want.He said he was trying to get the word out.If he planted the bombs, why spin that cock-and-bull story in the first place? And if he didn't plant them, but he knew where the bombs were, why wouldn't he tell me?""Leave the analysis to us," suggested Agent Judt."It's our speciality." He pointed at the dictaphone."I need to take that, I'm afraid.Jack, if you'd like to stay with Mr.Schroeder just in case the phone rings? I'm going to bring headquarters up to speed, get some backup in." He looked pointedly at Riccardo."You didn't hear any of this, Mr.Pirello, but it would be very helpful to me if you could have someone in your building security department provide Agent Fowler and me with visitor badges, and warn the front desk we're expecting colleagues."Riccardo scuttled away as soon as Judt broke eye contact.Then he turned back to Steve."Just wait here with Jack," he said reassuringly."What if Fleming phones? What do I do?" Steve demanded."Answer it," said Fowler, in a much more human tone of voice."Record it, and let me listen in.And if he wants to set up a meet—go for it."In a cheap motel room on the outskirts of Providence, Mike Fleming sat on the edge of an overstuffed mattress and poured a stiff shot of bourbon into the glass from the bathroom.His go bag sat on the luggage rack, leaking the dregs of his runaway life: a change of underwear, a set of false ID documents, the paperwork for the hire car in the parking lot—hired under a false name, paid for with a credit card under that name.The TV on the chest of drawers blatted on in hypermanic shock, endless rolling reruns of a flash reflecting off the Potomac, the collapsing monument—for some reason, the White House seemed to be taboo, too raw a nerve to touch in the bleeding subconscious of a national trauma.He needed the bourbon, as a personal anesthetic: It was appallingly bad tradecraft, he knew, but right now he didn't feel able to face reality without a haze of alcohol.Mike wasn't an amateur.He'd always known—always that a job could blow up in his face.You didn't expect that to happen, in the DEA, but you were an idiot if you didn't take precautions and make arrangements to look after your own skin.It was surprisingly easy to build up a false identity, and after one particular assignment in Central America had gone bad on him with extreme prejudice (a local chief of police had turned out to be the brother-in-law of the local heroin wholesaler) he'd carefully considered his options.When Pete Garfinkle had died, he'd activated them.It made as much sense as keeping his gun clean and loaded—especially after Dr.James had earmarked him for a one-way ticket into fairyland.They weren't forgeries, they were genuine, legal ID: He didn't use the license to get off speeding tickets, and he paid the credit card bill in full every time he used it [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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